


that's just the way you make me feel

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After care, Blow Job, Canon Divergence, Come play, Cunnilingus, Deep Throating, Dirty Talk, Dom!Jon, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Political!Jon, Porn with minimal Plot, Praise, Punishments, Scratching, Spanking, Squirting, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, bordering on their incest being a kink hahaha I'm not ashamed, obvi, oh also some LIGHT choking, pls read the tags, sub!Sansa, this is proper d/s sex, ya'll this filthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23576602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: On a sigh, Jon says, “You didn’t do as I asked.”“I didn’t know you’d arrive today,” Sansa rushes to say; a measly defence, because that’s not the reason she didn’t do it.“I understand,” he says, sliding his hand around from her throat to the back of her neck, guiding her down to kiss him again.Jon pulls away from her, nudging his nose against hers. His hand tightens around her throat, for just a second, and then he drops it down to her waist, circling it around her back and down to cup her arse.“But you know I can’t let such a thing go unpunished. Get up and bend over the desk, sweetheart.”
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 253





	that's just the way you make me feel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Authors_Restraint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authors_Restraint/gifts).



> TO MY DEAREST AUTHORS_RESTRAINT - HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE. 
> 
> please, enjoy this utter filth (p.s. I dare you to call me a snowflake after this. yes, I am still being petty about that.) 
> 
> everyone, pls read the tags. we get rather deep into d/s territory here, and it won't be for everyone. I won't be offended if you get half way through and realise it's not for you. 
> 
> oh, also, I wrote this in like 3 days, only my determination to get this out by the 9th fuelling me (and yet .. it's a day late ...) anyway I've done very minimal editing so like ... pretend it's fine. 
> 
> and my last also - thanks v much to the person who helped me find inspiration for this :) you know who you are bby 
> 
> unbeta'd

Sansa’s foot taps against the flagstone, her fingers clenching and unclenching atop the desk.

She feels . . . unusually agitated tonight. It’s not helped at all by the letter she’s holding in her hand from Robett Glover, stating that his House and bannermen will be staying in Deepwood Motte.

It is not what she needed tonight. Tonight, she needed to retreat to her chambers and lick her wounds; perhaps indulge in a glass of spiced wine, have a bath with some scented oil mixed in, and then go to bed, Ghost curled at her feet.

Watching Jon with Daenerys was . . . harder than expected.

She has told herself continuously that this might not be what it seems, that Jon wouldn’t have done exactly what she warned him against and fallen in love with a woman and given away the North. As the evening had gone on, however, Sansa had found it more and more difficult to believe it.

She’s trying, so very hard, to remember the little things; how tightly he’d hugged her when he’d arrived home; the way he’d said, “ _I had a choice . . .”_ ; the way he’d reached under the table at dinner time to squeeze just above her knee when she’d been drawn too deep into a quickly deteriorating conversation with Daenerys.

But her insecurities are playing on her, her previous experience is screaming at her that people change, that motives change, and she’s trying to tamper it by remembering that Jon is Jon. She really is.

But it’s difficult.

Hence why she desperately needed to destress this evening.

When there is a knock on her door, Sansa’s eye twitches, though she hopes that it is just Arya or Bran.

She couldn’t handle more bad news this evening.

When it’s Jon that opens the door, Sansa’s eye twitches again.

 _Be calm, Sansa,_ she tells herself. _You of all people know that everything is not always what it seems._

“Hello, Jon,” she greets, and is pleased with how normal it sounds.

It must not sound as calm as she thought, though, because Jon glances at her warily before resuming in closing the door. It clicks closed quietly, and Jon stays with his back facing her for a few long, tense moments, but then he turns to face her.

Silently, he comes to sit at the opposite side of her desk, and with every step he takes, his back straightens and his eyes harden.

It does not exactly inspire confidence; if he were coming to seek her counsel, to share a secret, surely he would not look like he is squaring for a fight.

He opens his mouth, her name dropping from it in a sigh like he is already exhausted from arguing with her, and Sansa can’t stand it.

Rationality flees from her, and she eagerly reaches for the opportunity to argue with him – because if he is defensive, he must have done something wrong.

“So it’s true, then?” she demands, cutting him off.

Jon purses his lips, eyes narrowed at her, before he slumps into his chair. “I know I shouldn’t have.”

The confirmation of her fears makes her clench her jaw, the parchment from the Glovers crumpling in her hand.

“That’s to be your argument, is it?” Sansa scoffs. “Of _course_ you shouldn’t have.”

He winces. “I truly tried to find an alternative, Sansa. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you, but –“

Sansa stands from her chair, so furious the legs of it scrape against the stone.

“So that’s why you’re here?” Sansa spits. “To appeal to me as, what, a spurned lover? To ask me to put aside any jealously I might feel? I assure you, Jon, it is not jealousy that makes me wary of your new Queen.”

Jon blinks once, twice, and then his own lips start to turn down in a frown. “ _That’s_ what you think this is? You think I’m here to tell you I love her and to ask you to step aside?”

Sansa feels a twist of unease in her gut, the thought starting to creep in that maybe she should have kept that faith in him, that maybe it _was_ jealousy that made her doubt him, but she doesn’t know how to back down so easily.

“Then what are you here for, Jon?”

“No, Sansa, I think we should talk more about this,” Jon says, voice hard and eyes intent on hers as he stands. “I want to know what you thought was happening. You thought I loved her? You thought I’d given your home away to her?”

Sansa narrows her eyes at him. That last she knows to be true: he has given her his crown, delegated down to be a paltry Warden of the North in comparison to his previous King.

“You mean you _haven’t_ given Winterfell to her?”

“Of course I haven’t!” he snaps. Sansa feels a pit of guilt at accusing him without hearing the story from him first, but then - “You would think so little of me?”

“You didn’t exactly give me much to go on, Jon!” Sansa shouts, then takes a deep breath, trying to reign her anger in. She presses her hands together, fingernails digging into her skin. “You were gone for _moons._ I heard nary a word from you, updated only by Davos, who was telling me of the _ridiculous_ things you were doing, like going beyond the Wall or treating with Cersei. _Cersei!_ The only letter I get from you in almost a year is to say that you’re bringing the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms north to organise the defence of the Realm. Signed, the Warden in North. Please, Jon, I’m having trouble grasping where in that I’m supposed to think you _haven’t_ given away the North.”

Jon goes quiet for a long moment, staring at her for so long that Sansa starts to feel her anger slip away.

Then, he says, “I left my will with Wolkan. If I died, you would become Queen. If I was held captive on Dragonstone, barring my return, you would become Queen. Any alliances or promises I made while south, if made under duress, were not to be implemented into Northern law. Forgetting that, Sansa, you know better than most that sometimes people _lie.”_

Sansa is shaking her head before he has even finished. “You can’t _lie_ about fealty, Jon. That’s not how it works. You bend the knee and you –“

“Aye,” he interrupts. “You bend the knee. You offer your sword before your monarch, and you have witnesses to attest to such an act.”

“Enough of these riddles, Jon,” Sansa snaps, rubbing her forehead with her palm, feeling overwhelmingly tired. “Is she our Queen or not?”

“I told her she was our Queen,” Jon says, most of the heat gone from his voice, now, too. “But, no, I did not follow protocol. I neither physically bent the knee, nor was anyone present when I told her I would – and I don’t intend to follow through.”

Sansa bites her lip, and turns away from Jon. She feels . . . oh, she doesn’t know how she feels. Relieved, certainly, but this new situation, while less infuriating, is much more complex. It’s a dangerous play Jon has made, dangerous for more than just the Stark’s, and it is one which is going to require some significant handling from her part.

It is delicate, but doable, she supposes. Sansa has only known Daenerys for an afternoon though, and already she can tell that Daenerys expects unyielding loyalty, and anything less than that feels like a betrayal to her.

If she is to learn that Jon has not been at all truthful with her . . .

“I don’t understand why you’re pretending to love her.”

It’s out before she can stop it.

 _Spurned lover indeed,_ Sansa thinks bitterly.

“It’s . . . insurance.” He sounds wary again, and Sansa turns to watch him. “She’s not . . . She’s very . . .” Jon sighs, then sits again, falling heavily into the chair. “She’s fickle, Sansa. I thought that an . . . emotional connection might . . . convince her to stay and fight.”

He doesn’t meet her eyes as he stumbles through his words, and Sansa knows why.

She retakes her own seat slowly, her hands sliding over the tabletop.

“This is not the same as what happened to me, Jon. I was manipulated to fulfil selfish wants. She does not deserve to have her emotions toyed with, nobody does, but we are past _wants_ now. This is need against need, and it is not about you, or I, or even just the North. This is about all of Westeros, and if this is the cost, then . . .”

“It’s wrong, Sansa,” Jon says. “There is no honour in what I’ve done.”

Sansa reaches across the table for his hand. “You know better than to dwell on such things, Jon. You’ve always been able to do what needs to be done.”

He slides his fingers into her eyes, watching the hands intertwine.

“It weighs on me heavier this time.”

“Yes,” Sansa agrees quietly. “I’m tired, too.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, and Sansa’s gaze drops to their hands, too, watching as Jon’s thumb starts to circle her palm.

“I’m sorry for doubting you. You’re right, I should have trusted you.”

Jon shakes his head, lifting his eyes. “No, Sansa. You were right. I didn’t share any of my plans, and I can’t fault you for worrying over the fate of the North. I shouldn’t have expected blind loyalty.”

“You’re my family,” Sansa says softly. “It should have been there anyway. Forgive me?”

With the echo of the past around them, Jon smiles and says, “There is nothing to forgive.”

Her heart melts, just a little, at the reminder of their time at Castle Black together, when everything was somehow the most terrible it’s ever been and yet the most simple since she left home.

Jon clears his throat, hand tightening in hers. “Can I –“ He pauses, wets his lips, then continues. “Can I assume your feelings are the same now as they were when I left? I was gone a long time, I know, and –“

“Yes,” Sansa interrupts. “Yes, they’re the same.”

Jon’s tongue pokes out again, running along his bottom lip, and Sansa finds her eyes drawn to the sight.

“Come here, Sansa.”

Oh, she knows what that tone means. There is a flip of excitement low in her gut, making it start to burn, and it is almost involuntary, the way she stands and rounds the table.

Jon smooths his hand over his knee, then quirks his brow at her. Bottom lip sucked between her teeth, Sansa perches herself on his knee, placing her hand on his shoulder and running the fur of the cloak she stitched for him through her fingers.

“Did you wear this in the south?” she asks, chest tight with breathlessness.

His face softens, and he catches her wrist in his hand. “I did. I couldn’t bear to part with it, even if it was . . . much warmer down there.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Sansa teases.

“So you say,” Jon says, then tugs her wrist until she falls forward, her lips on his.

Kissing Jon is . . . it’s indescribable. She always feels so thoroughly devoured, so overcome, and when it’s done she can never quite remember the details because he turns her completely inside out. It is no different now, despite such a long separation. It is perhaps even more intense, truthfully, because despite their having learnt each other so thoroughly before he left, she has forgotten the little things he does.

Like the way his fingers bite into her waist, or just how _soft_ his lips are, the way his tongue tastes as it licks a line up hers, or how his hand tangles into the ends of her hair and tugs, just slightly, enough to make her scalp tingle and her body start to buzz.

Jon releases her wrist to gently cup her neck, thumb resting on her chin.

“Now, Sansa,” he murmurs, voice low and deep and delicious, making her melt further into him. He smirks against her mouth, but she can’t even care. He’s back, and she’s missed him terribly and oh she’s _dreamt_ about what their first night back together might be like. “You remember what I asked you to do?”

She does. But she – well, it’s been so long since she saw him, and it was difficult this morning to get back into the right headspace to follow his request.

“I remember,” she whispers, hesitantly, pulling her mouth away from his just slightly.

Jon leans back in his chair, raising a brow at her.

He knows she hasn’t followed through. He definitely knows.

“So, if I were to do this . . .” Slowly, he grips her skirts in his fist, dragging them up her calves, then her thighs, exposing her stockings and then the bare skin between where they end and where her underclothes begin.

His fingers dance over her bare thigh, prickling her skin in the wake of his path, and then they brush over the fabric of her underclothes. There, his fingers pause, catching the cloth between thumb and forefinger, so achingly close to her cunt that she almost rocks into his touch.

On a sigh, Jon says, “You didn’t do as I asked.”

“I didn’t know you’d arrive today,” Sansa rushes to say; a measly defence, because that’s not the reason she didn’t do it. She might not have known for _sure,_ but she had a reasonable idea. Secretly, she hopes he’ll confront her about it.

Jon sighs again, then lets go of her underclothes and pulls her dress back down.

“I understand,” he says, sliding his hand around from her throat to the back of her neck, guiding her down to kiss him again. He is even more gentle this time, and Sansa feels . . . well, she feels a little disappointed.

She didn’t put her underclothes on this morning with the express thought of disobeying Jon’s parting order to be bare the day he returned, but, well . . . it might have _slightly_ played into it. Mostly, she felt nervous to do such a depraved thing while acting as regent, and without Jon whispering into her ear about how much he wanted her to, she found it difficult to follow his instruction.

Jon pulls away from her, nudging his nose against hers. His hand tightens around her throat, for just a second, and then he drops it down to her waist, circling it around her back and down to cup her arse.

“But you know I can’t let such a thing go unpunished. Get up and bend over the desk, sweetheart.”

It’s like her heart jumps into her throat. Her tummy burns and her head feels light, and everything outside the two of them disappears.

Her legs feel weak as they touch the ground, a tremble in her knees already. There is a burn in her lungs, her shallow breathing and her corset a combination that makes it difficult to breathe, but she has to get herself under control.

She knows from experience that they have a long night ahead of them.

Slowly, Sansa bends over the desk, settling her cunt right against the edge, relaxing her torso against the hard surface. Then, she stacks her hands underneath her cheek, giving her just enough height that she can still see Jon if she cranes her neck a little.

He is still sitting, watching her with his keen eyes, and when their gazes meet, Sansa feels such a flush of desire for him that her hips rock into table.

His lips part and his brows raise, a distinct air of incredulity to him as he folds his hands together under his chin.

“ _Sansa_ ,” he warns, fingers clenched together so tightly the knuckles go white.

She rocks her hips again.

Slowly, he stands from his chair, the wood of it creaking as he does.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, sweetheart?” Jon says, his voice softer than she expected. There’s an edge of sympathy there, and she rocks into the table again, her eyes fluttering closed as the friction hits her just right. “You seem to have forgotten all the rules.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Sansa says, before she thinks it through.

He pauses undoing his cloak to stare down at her.

“So you’re deliberately disobeying me?”

A whimper escapes from her throat as she shakes her head. “No, I’m not.”

Jon sighs heavily, then finishes undoing his cloak. As he starts to unbuckle his sword belt, he says, “Well, which is it?”

Sansa stays quiet, unsure what to say.

Jon rests his sword against the table, and then reaches up to her hair, playing with the ends of it. She feels him splay it over her back, and then his fingers brush over her cheek, pulling stray strands out of her face.

“Tell me, Sansa.”

His fingers reach into her hair at the base of her skull, and then he tugs, a little harder than before.

On a moan, she reveals, “I just want to peak.” 

Jon releases her hair, sliding his hand down her spine to rest against the base of her back.

“I know, sweet sister. I know.”

His hand disappears from her back, and Sansa peeks over her shoulder to see him undoing his jerkin. When his leathers are set aside, Jon rolls up the sleeves patiently, taking the time to fold each one up his forearms. 

As he does, he says, “And you know that you will, don’t you? You know exactly how good I’ll make you feel.”

Gods she _does._ She knows exactly how good he’ll make her feel. He makes her feel so good that sometimes she can’t even remember; he’ll push her so far that her mind goes dark and hazy.

“Seems like you’ve forgotten a lot of things in my absence.” 

When he’s finished rolling his sleeves, Sansa’s cunt is aching, and she can feel how slick she is.

“Forgotten that I like you to answer my questions, to start,” he says, tone steeped in disapproval. “I’m not talking to myself, sweetheart. I’m talking to you.”

“Yes, Jon.”

“Oh, little sister. Are you trying to piss me off? And to think, you were behaving so well before I left.”

Just to see what he’ll do, Sansa rocks into the desk again.

Jon flips up her skirt, bunching it above her hips, then kicks her feet further apart.

“Forgetting my name,” he tuts, pulling her small clothes down. “Forgetting the rules. Forgetting what I asked you to do – and then _lying_ about it.”

Sansa groans, turning her face into her hands. Of _course_ he picked up on that. She should have known better than to assume that just because he didn’t say anything immediately, he didn’t know.

“Disobeying me,” he continues, hand smoothing over her now-bare arse. “What do you think is an appropriate punishment? Ten?”

She catches his eye over her shoulder, and his movements pause. His voice returns to normal when he says, “You okay?”

“Yes,” Sansa replies, breathless. “Yes. Keep going.”

He nods once, then refocusses his attention on her arse. “Ten it is.”

His hand comes down against her skin hard and fast, and Sansa bucks into the table. The edge of it brushes against her nub, and the moan that fills the air has Jon bringing his hand down a second time.

“Don’t move again,” he warns. “Every time you rock into the table, I’m adding three.”

Sansa exhales loudly, wondering how she’ll possibly get through. Her cunt _aches,_ and the sting of his hand is so exhilarating her face is starting to flush. 

“Put your hands above your head,” Jon instructs. “Hold the edge of the table.”

She follows his instruction eagerly, pressing her warm cheek against the table and lightly curling her fingers around the table.

“Good girl,” he says, then rewards her by sliding his hand down and dipping his fingers between her folds.

“Oh!” Sansa gasps, rocking back into him.

Jon pulls his hand away, and in rapid succession lays three sharp smacks against her arse.

“I said don’t move.”

Sansa turns her face into the desk, trying to even her breathing. Sometimes she wonders why she likes this so much, and from her _brother_ no less, but then –

Jon’s hand is suddenly in her hair, turning her face back to the side. “I want to see your pretty face, sweetheart. I want to see your eyes glaze over, your cheeks get red and watch your lips part.”

\- but then again, she doesn’t care _why._ Just as long as keeps he keeps going.

“That’s a lot of instructions,” Sansa says, trying to tease but really just sounding as breathless as she feels.

“I happen to think I’m being very clear. You’re not to move. You’ll speak when spoken to, but not before. You’re not to lie to me. Most importantly, you _don’t_ disobey me.”

He detangles his hand from her hair, and then smacks her again. “Is that clear enough for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed.

His hand comes down again, and it’s starting to truly sting, now. She can only imagine the shade her pale skin is turning. Her fingers are starting to ache from how hard they’re clenched around the table edge, and there is a tremble to her knees from the effort of staying still.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Jon hums with pleasure, smoothing his hand over the burn of her arse.

“Now, how many to go?”

“Three,” Sansa replies quickly.

“Six,” he corrects, “you moved, remember?”

“You didn’t say – “ His hand comes down again, and her sentence is interrupted with a sharp gasp at how _hard_ it is. Still, she presses on, grinding out, “You didn’t say I couldn’t move _back.”_

“Alright, Sansa,” Jon says, voice taking on a harder edge. It takes all her willpower not to roll her hips at the sound. “This is how you want to play? Alright.”

He moves to her other cheek to part the remaining five against her skin, and the quick succession of them has Sansa pressing her feet into the ground in order to stay still. It well and truly burns, the sting of it making her cheeks start to throb, and there is relief that comes with the end.

Sansa pants against the desk, sweat lining her hairline, clenching and unclenching her fingers against the desk. She takes effort not to shift her legs to find a more comfortable position, for fear that Jon will mistake her movements as something they’re not and punish her further.

“I can see that the usual punishment isn’t going to cut it tonight,” Jon says, running both his hands down the backs of her thighs. “I’ll have to be more creative. And seeing as you wanted to peak so badly . . .”

Abruptly, she feels his tongue swipe against her folds, and Sansa bucks in surprise. She didn’t even know he was kneeling.

Jon drags his blunt fingernails over her arse, layering scratches over the burn of his spanks, and Sansa cries out. She’d kept silent through his initial punishment, and she would have tried to keep silent if she had any restraint with his tongue on her like this.

It’s been too long without him, too long since she touched herself, and it feels so, _so_ good.

Jon’s tongue dives inside her cunt with the enthusiasm she’s so desperately missed, and he pulls her back by the hips with both his hands so that there’s more space between the desk and her nub. He takes no mercy on her, doesn’t try and build her up slowly, just finds her nub with his fingers and sets to quickly circling it, his tongue keeping its own insistence.

She thinks she hears him mutter, “So _wet,”_ at some point, but she can’t be sure; even the hard and uncomfortable feeling of the wooden desk beneath her disappears, and all she can focus on is how amazing his mouth and fingers feel on and in her.

Her tummy starts to tighten embarrassingly quickly, and before she can even warn Jon that she’s going to peak, she’s falling over the edge, cunt spasming and her skin tingling.

When her chest and waist is no longer painfully digging into the corset with each panting breath, when she starts to feel the wood underneath her again, when she feels the scratch of her dress against her skin, Sansa slowly releases each finger from it’s tight hold against the desk.

She’s supposed to ask if she’s allowed to peak.

“Your Grace, I – I –“ But she can’t form words, can barely open her eyes.

Jon is pressing gentle and soothing kisses against her arse cheeks, the hand that had been playing her nub is running over her knees, and he hums against her skin at her stumbled words.

“Yes, sweetheart? You what?”

Sansa swallows heavily, her throat feeling parched. “I – I’m sorry for peaking without your permission.”

She both hopes that he forgive her and that he won’t. There’s a strange dichotomy in these games they play, and she thinks that’s why she loves them so much. She hopes he’ll punish her, and she hopes that he’ll be tender with her. She wants him to dominate her, but she doesn’t want to feel like he’s manipulating her or taking advantage of her.

There is a delicate balance of trust that must be reached, and they have found theirs. He is in control, but only because she lets him be. She is there for him to play with, and yet he is there to service her. It is addicting, truly, and makes her blood flow so hot and yet like honey, makes her heart race and yet makes her feel calm.

Here, with him, she is safe. He takes everything else away for her, and reduces the world to just him and her and the four corners of her chambers, and Sansa doesn’t want to give it up for anything. She _won’t_ give it up for anything. Not even their blood relation.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” Jon murmurs against her skin. “You don’t have to ask tonight, alright? I just want you to peak as many times as you can.”

She feels him stand from where he’s knelt behind her, and then his hands grip her hips, harsh and tight. Her head rushes with the sudden sensation of being turned over, and then she is blinking up at him, on her back with her legs pushed apart by his hands on her thighs.

“And then, when you’re begging me to stop, I’m going to make you peak even more.”

His hand slides down her thigh, and then he has pushed one finger into her cunt, and then a second, gently starting to thrust them in and out.

Sansa groans, her head falling back, her hands reaching for the hem of her skirts and pulling them up even higher.

Jon uses his free hand to push against the underside of one of her knees, pressing it into her chest. He hitches one of his own legs up on the desk, bent at the knee, then rests the bottom of her thigh over the top his, keeping her legs parted.

“Now, sweetheart,” Jon starts, planting his free hand beside her shoulder, still keeping the slow pace with his fingers. “Do you remember that time you peaked so hard that you gushed from your cunt?”

Sansa moans. Does she _remember?_ She remembers how intense it was, how it felt like her entire body was on fire, how she felt like it was too much, how she tried to push his hand away as he worked at her, and she remembers her whole mind going fuzzy while she peaked. It’s not that she has a gap in her memory, per se, it’s not like she remembers blacking out, but Jon has told her some details from that time that she can’t quite focus on in her own mind.

She thinks that she must have blacked out, but yes. Aside from that, she remembers quiet well.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Jon hums, and then bends his neck to give her a deep and filthy kiss. He presses his tongue into her mouth, daring her to taste the evidence of her peak on it, and taste it she does. It never tastes better than when it’s coming from Jon’s mouth.

“I want you to peak like that again,” Jon murmurs, and then he pulls his head back and starts to move his hand the way he did last time.

Fingers curled up towards her belly, hand moving up and down, not in and out, with such a vigorous pace she feels her upper thighs shaking.

“Oh, _gods,”_ Sansa groans, her back arching. Her hands fly out, fingernails uselessly scraping against the even surface of the desk, desperate for something to cling on to. “Oh, gods, yes, yes, yes!”

Jon does not even stop his movements, and she remembers from last time just how quick and effective this method is. She also knows how abrupt her second peak can roll over her, and the knowledge of her body does not betray her now.

She peaks exactly how he wants her to, how he’s trying to make her, though she knows that less from feeling the liquid and more from hearing Jon groan with delight; as she peaks, her entire body tenses, her muscles locking up as her mouth opens into gasp so raw it is practically silent. It feels like it lasts forever, her cunt clenching down around Jon’s still-moving fingers. Her mind doesn’t go black, but her vision certainly goes white, and her eyes shut so tightly she can see stars.

As she comes down from the high, her muscles unlock, and go straight to shaking. Her legs, in particular, are twitching, shuddering, _shaking,_ and it is her feeble moan that has Jon slow down.

Lucky, too. If he’d kept going, he would likely have made her peak again in no time, and Sansa feels _exhausted._ She doesn’t want another peak. Her cunt feels raw, and messy, and she wants him to pull his fingers out and leave her alone so she can catch her breath in peace and go to sleep.

That he won’t is where the punishment starts, she thinks.

To her relief, though, Jon does one of those things. He slides his fingers from her, so very gently, and takes his knee from the table so she can close her legs. Sansa does so eagerly, rolling onto her side and pulling her legs to her chest.

Jon brushes her damp hair from her face again, wiping the sweat from her brow with his thumb.

“You did so well for me,” he says as he does, running his fingers through her hair like he’s brushing it. “So well. You did exactly what I asked, sweetheart. You’re such a good girl.”

Sansa hums in delight, eyes still planted firmly shut, but a smile starts to play on her lips. She loves pleasing him. She loves making him proud of her. That feeling she gets when he praises her, compliments her, encourages her . . . it’s almost indescribable, the way her stomach flips. It’s something like excitement, something like desire. Whatever it is, it makes her body burn.

“Mmm, and you look so beautiful like that. My beautiful, sweet, sister, peaking so well for me. How do you feel, sweetheart?”

“Good,” she mumbles.

“Sit up for me.”

Sansa groans in disagreement with the prospect, still trying to bring herself back to her body, but Jon, despite his tenderness, doesn’t take no for an answer.

“Come on. Up.”

He guides one of his arms underneath her neck, the other around her waist, and pulls her up himself. She is very little help to him, slumping against his chest as soon as he has her sitting up.

“Hey, hey, look at me, Sansa.”

The sound of her name makes her eyes blink open. Jon is peering down at her, brows furrowed.

“Where are you at, my love?”

She knows he’s asking if she wants to stop. Sansa takes the question seriously, wondering if she truly wants to; whether she needs to. She’s tired, and her bones feel like they’ve gone soft, and if he asks her to stand she’s almost entirely sure that she won’t be able to, but - . . . They’ve gone further. Jon’s pushed her further. She knows she can take more.

She _wants_ to take more.

There is always a curiosity that comes along with these meetings of theirs. She wants to know how much she can handle, and how far Jon is willing to go.

“Lemon cakes.”

Jon smiles down at her, a small, gentle thing. “Are you sure? You don’t want to stop?”

“Don’t stop,” Sansa reiterates. “I’m okay. Keep going.”

“Can you stand?”

Slowly, she presses her toes flat against the ground. Her legs are still shaking, and when she puts her foot against the ground she can feel her knee buckle.

She looks up at him, biting her lip, trying to put on her best innocent face.

Jon chuckles, then scoops her into his arms. “That’s alright, you know how much I like manhandling you.”

Sansa grins and rests her head against his shoulder as he carries her into her bedchambers.

“I’ve missed you.”

The little smile he gives her is his most tender and adoring of the night, and Sansa would melt in his arms if she hadn’t already.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses. Jon sets her on the edge of the bed, then parts her hair and lays it over her shoulder so it flows down her chest. “Let’s get the dress off. I want to see your amazing tits.”

“Careful,” Sansa teases, tilting her head down she he can start undoing the laces down her spine. “Or else I’ll think I can just show you my tits and have my way with you.”

“You’re so cute when you try to challenge me,” Jon says, amusement thick in his voice. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

She opens her mouth to argue, goes to turn to face him, except when she presses her hand into the bed to turn, her elbow buckles.

“Maybe another time,” Jon says, and she can _hear_ his grin. “Now, stay still. I’m sure you need this off as much as I do.”

Infuriatingly, he’s right. The corset is digging into her painfully, and while he’d been making her peak that hadn’t mattered. It had added to the sensation, really. Now, however, it’s just uncomfortable.

Jon gets about halfway down the laces before he sighs loudly and grumbles, “Right, I’m just cutting it off. This is ridiculous.”

“Be patient,” Sansa tuts, knowing full well what her taunt will provoke in him. He says that to her often enough that her saying it now will only make him toy with her more.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s like when you’re trying to make me peak,” Sansa continues, as if he hadn’t spoken.

“ _Trying?_ ”

“You’ve got to show it dedication,” she lectures. “Work at it with determination. You’re good with your fingers, Jon. Stop complaining.”

“Oh, Sansa. You sweet little thing.”

The tone of his voice makes her start to wonder if she’s gone too far. Jon has proven time and again that he has more patience than her, that he’s more stubborn, that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make her behave. She should know better than to provoke him by now, but it’s just so _fun._

He says nothing else as he finishes off her laces, doesn’t even brush his fingers over her slowly baring back as he had been doing before. Instead, he just gets them undone, and then suddenly he hooks his hands under her arms and stands her up.

She almost falls, but Jon’s fingers dig into her waist. “Stand up,” he barks, and Sansa stills.

She waits with baited breath as he tears her dress from her, making her completely naked for him.

If others knew the nature of their relationship, she thinks that they’d mistake what this dynamic really is. They’d think that she fears Jon, or is at least apprehensive of him.

But Sansa is neither. She follows his instructions, and if she doesn’t he’ll punish her; but the compulsion to do what he asks doesn’t come from the fear that he’ll hurt her. No, it’s something much more primal, something that is buried deep in her psyche that makes her want his praise, his pride.

It may taste like fear sometimes, but Sansa is not scared of Jon. No, in fact, while she surrenders her control to Jon, she still knows he would do what she asks of him. Namely, stop. Because of that, she can’t truly be scared of him.

“Lay back.”

Sansa climbs on to the bed, feeling a sense of nervousness swirling. Oh, she shouldn’t have teased him, that was so silly, but, mm, her punishment is going to be _delicious –_

“Spread your legs.”

Sansa hesitates, only for a moment, but it’s long enough for Jon to raise his brows at her and grab her thighs to force them open.

“I’m sorry,” she tries pitifully.

“Sorry for what?”

“For talking back.”

Jon kneels on the bed between her legs, running his palms up and down her thighs. “Hmmm.”

Her cunt is still aching from earlier, still feeling so very, _very_ sensitive, but Jon doesn’t touch it. Not yet. She doesn’t want him to, because at this point any pleasure is going to feel like pain and is going to overwhelm all her senses and every nerve in her body; and yet, she _does_ want him to, because her cunt feels empty, and the way he makes her feel is _addicting._

Jon doesn’t touch her though. No, instead, he lowers his head to her chest. “That was a very feeble apology, sister,” he murmurs, between the valley of her breasts. “I want you to _beg.”_

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she whimpers, with a voice she hardly recognises. She loves when she gets this deep. “I’m sorry for teasing. Please, please, I – I –“

“Mmm,” Jon hums, turning his head slightly to start kissing his way up her breast. “Yes, sweetheart? You what? Do you want me touch you?”

His hand sneaks between their bodies to cup her cunt, and it sends a zap of pleasure so intense that she tries to close her legs, thighs squeezing around his waist.

“You _don’t_ want me to?”

As Jon drags his hand away from cunt, his fingers brush against her overstimulated nub, making her legs twitch involuntarily. He grins against her breast, and then sinks his teeth into the soft skin of it.

“Gods, I’ve missed these,” Jon murmurs, saving her from answering, because, well . . . Because she doesn’t have an answer. “So perfect, Sansa, so pretty.”

Sansa rakes her nails over his scalp as he takes her nipple in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth.

“Oh, gods, ahh.”

“How are you feeling?” Jon asks, releasing her nipple to lave his tongue over it. “Do you think you’ve learnt your lesson?”

Has she learnt her lesson? The only lesson she’s learnt tonight is just how easily he can make her peak.

“No,” she admits, with a smirk twisting up her lips.

“I thought the same,” Jon agrees, and then takes her nipple into his teeth again, pulling and tugging his head back so that her nipple and skin stretches. It is the _sweetest_ kind of pain, one that is centred entirely to where his teeth are, but one that still makes her skin start to tingle.

Jon shows no sign of stopping, though, pulling her skin taut. He catches her eye, lips turning up into a smirk. She can stay stubborn, of course, and let him keep going, or she can capitulate and beg him to stop like he wants.

She loves pushing him as far as he pushes her, driving him mad and making him lose control, but he is _far_ more stubborn than her in these situations.

“Yes, I have,” she gasps suddenly, tugging on his curls. “Yes, I’ve learnt my lesson Your Grace. I have, I have, I promise, please, stop, please.”

Jon maintains his grip for a moment longer, and then he releases her, gently kissing her aching nipple.

“I don’t think you have,” he murmurs. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not done with you yet.”

With that, he sidles down her body, setting his mouth to her nub. Like the last two times, Jon doesn’t try to slowly work her up to it. Instead, he goes _hard,_ immediately seeking that which he wants.

Except this time, Sansa is sure she can’t. Sure, he’s made her peak more times than this before, but never has he made her peak so hard so early.

“Your Grace, I can’t, I can’t, I – I – I can’t take it.”

He lifts his head long enough to say, “You _can_ , Sansa,” and then he’s working at her again.

It takes him a little longer, and Sansa is truly convinced it’s not going to happen, but Jon is patient. Sansa’s body twitches and shudders uncontrollably throughout, and her skin feels hot and cold at the same time. She’s flushed and sweaty, too, thighs sticky from her previous peak, and she wants him to _stop,_ because it’s just so much and she truly feels like she can’t take it.

She knows Jon likes it when she talks to him throughout, likes it when she moans his name or tells him to keep going – and he especially likes it when she asks if she can peak. But she can’t do anything but mumble incoherently, gasp and moan so loudly she’s practically screaming.

But, well . . . Jon likes that, too, if his enthusiasm is anything to go by. She would almost say it makes him go harder, if she could say anything.

Her peak rolls over her as abruptly as the last, pressure building in her tummy and snapping just as quickly, waves and waves of pleasure rushing through her body. Her back arches and she tugs on his hair, _hard,_ and the way her cunt clenches makes her feel like she’s flying.

To her great relief, Jon doesn’t keep tonguing her. As soon as her body slumps into the bed, he stops, resting his chin against her hip.

Sansa can’t open her eyes, she feels so sated. She can’t move her legs, either, and her hands slide from Jon’s hair, arms falling limp beside her.

“That feel good, sweetheart?” Jon mumbles, but Sansa can’t really focus on his words, let alone answer him.

She just hums, a noise deep from her throat, and tries to bring focus back to her mind. The furs feel scratchy beneath her back, and Jon’s beard feels like it’s rubbing her raw on her hipbone.

It is _overwhelming,_ incredibly so. It’s so much that she can’t move, no matter how much she tells herself to.

“Oh, I like _this,_ sweetheart,” Jon murmurs, poking his tongue out and running it along her skin. “A bit quieter than I’m used to, but I like you like this. Sated and . . . Well behaved.”

She means to chuckle, but it comes out as another low moan.

Jon’s chuckle is much more successful than hers, and she opens her eyes just enough to see a wide grin spread over his face. He crawls up her body, pressing kisses to her skin as moves up. His loose shirt scrapes against her over sensitive skin, and it is what finally prompts her to lift her arms, resting her hands loosely in his hair.

When Jon kisses her lips, slowly, gently, it brings some of her senses back. Certainly not all, and in some ways his tender affections blank her mind even further. She loves when he’s hard, but she loves when he’s soft, too.

Jon’s mouth slides from hers, sucking and nibbling along her jaw, finding a destination at her earlobe.

“Oh, _oh,_ ” Sansa gasps, fingers tightening their grip in his hair.

One of his hands glides up her body, pausing for a second at the base of her throat, finally finding its destination when his palm rests against her chin. His thumb runs along her bottom lip, and Sansa opens her mouth eagerly, sucking the tip of his thumb between her lips.

“You’re such a good girl,” he rasps into her ear. “So, so good for me. Do you think you can take my cock in your pretty mouth, sweetheart? Can you do that for me?”

He takes his thumb from her mouth long enough for her to answer.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Yes, I can do that for you.”

Jon moves his head to give her another deep and dirty kiss, and then he rolls off her, pulling his shirt off as he does. He stands by the bed, eyes roaming over her limp body, and his focus doesn’t waver from her as he pulls off his breeches.

It takes a significant amount of energy and focus to push herself up, and her legs and arms buckle and her hair sticks to the sweat on her back, but she sits up, eyes locked on Jon’s hard cock.

Jon cups her face with one hand, the other coming to rest against the bun of braids that sits atop her head. Eyes focused on hers, Jon leans down to nudge his nose against the arc of her cheekbone.

“Suck my cock, sweet sister.”

Oh _gods._ Gods, yes, she wants to. This is one of the things she’s missed the most.

Sansa relishes giving Jon control when they have sex, she truly does. She thinks that Jon has ruined her for her future husband, because if it can’t be like this, then why bother?

But this act . . . It gives her her own kind of power. When Jon spills his seed down her throat because her mouth feels so good he can’t help himself - . . . There is an unmatched feeling that comes with that.

Jon straightens back up, tugging slowly at his cock a couple times, and Sansa reaches for his hip to pull him to her, mouth open for him.

He groans when his cock first slides over her flattened tongue, both his hands tightening their grip momentarily.

Sansa is desperate to make him peak, as she always is. It feels like a mark of her success.

Slowly, she presses forward, taking Jon further and further into her mouth; he groans as she does, his head falling back, fingers caressing her cheek.

“Gods, you feel so good, sweetheart. So good, your mouth is so perfect.”

Sansa hums around him, delighted, then pulls back, licking her lips as she pops her mouth off him. 

“Again, sweet girl. Again.”

She pokes her tongue out, flat over her bottom lip, then turns her head so she can lick the underside of his cock from base to head. Once there, she slides him back into her mouth, until she’s halfway down, and then back up; then down, and back up.

This time, she lets him go completely, and then slides from the bed to kneel at his feet.

It’s like his whole face changes, the way it darkens with such unbridled desire. His grip on her hair and neck changes, and he guides her mouth back to his cock, rubbing its head over her lips.

“Look at my little Lady of Winterfell, on her knees for me. You look so good like this, so pretty. You like kneeling for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa breathes, and then takes his cock again.

“ _Gods,_ fuck, I’ve missed your mouth so much. The way you slide your tongue along my cock – _yes,_ like that, sweetheart, exactly like that. Fuck, you’re so pretty, such a pretty little thing.”

His praise only makes her work harder, because she craves it, craves pleasing him and the rewards he showers upon her in return. He groans, continuing to mutter to her about how good she’s doing, how pretty she is like, how beautiful it is to watch his cock disappear into her mouth.

“Gods, I want to fuck your throat. Will you let me, sweetheart?”

She removes her mouth long enough to say, “Yes, Your Grace,” and then he’s easing his cock back in, giving her time to relax her throat.

It takes a few tries for her to get it, because it’s been so long and she’s out of practice, but eventually she takes him down, relishing in the familiar burn – and then he starts to fuck her mouth and throat in earnest. It makes her lungs ache and her eyes water, as it always does, but the way Jon groans and mutters such filthy, _filthy_ praise makes it oh so worth it.

Truthfully, though, he doesn’t end up fucking her mouth for long. She’s surprised when he pulls away, because usually he likes to spill in her mouth first, then make her peak another time, and _then_ fuck her cunt, because he says his second peak always takes much longer and he likes to fuck her for as long as he can.

So when he pulls away, she blinks in surprise and rasps, “Wait, what-?”

“You don’t want me to fuck your cunt?” He asks, already guiding her to lay on her back atop the bed again.

“I do, I _really_ do, but –“

“Then spread your legs, sweetheart. I don’t want to wait any more.”

He slides his cock through her slick, messy folds, and when it nudges her nub, Sansa moans and shudders, still so sensitive.

“Your Grace, I – I –“

“You can take me, I know you can,” he encourages. She groans and nods, but Jon pauses and plants his hand beside her head so he can lean down and kiss her. “Tell me. Tell me you want me to.”

“Yes, Your Grace, please, I want to feel your cock again, I’ve missed it so much.”

He catches her lips in another greedy kiss, and it’s as he slides his tongue into her mouth that he slips his cock into her cunt, too. Sansa gasps into his mouth, clawing her nails over his back.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Jon groans, dropping his forehead to hers. “Gods, Sans, you feel so fucking good, your cunt is so tight and hot and _wet,_ fuck, sweetheart, you’re so wet.”

Her breath hitches again as he thrusts into her, a scream bubbling up in her throat at the overwhelming sensation. She can’t talk, but can’t even _think_ about keeping quiet either, only able to focus on the intense burn and pressure of Jon’s cock inside her.

“I’ve missed your cunt so much, I’ve _dreamt_ about it, putting my cock into my sweet sister’s cunt.”

Her nails are dug into his back and her eyes are clenched tightly shut, and she can hear his words, but as he starts to drive into her, starts to slap his hips into hers so fast her eyes cross, it becomes harder and harder to focus on what he’s saying.

All too suddenly, Jon stops, and Sansa cries out, rocking her hips up.

He groans and rolls off her, then grabs a pillow from the head of her bed.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Sansa turns over as if she has no control over her own actions, and Jon slides the pillows under hips.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and then yanks her wrists out from underneath her, letting her head slam into the furs as he gathers both her wrists in one hand at the small of her back.

With his other hand, he grips her waist, and leans down on her so hard her back arches, making her muscles burn.

He slides his cock back into her, and her mouth parts in a scream, and vaguely she’s aware she’s drooling into the furs as he _fucks_ her, but she couldn’t stop if she tried. She’s helpless against his thrusts – just the way they both like it.

“I want to feel you peak around my cock, sweetheart, come on, I know you can. Peak for me, peak for your brother-King.”

It rips through her so intensely it feels like her body is pulling apart, pleasure roiling inside her until she sobs. She feels dizzy, dangerously close to blacking out. She doesn’t even feel Jon spill inside her, she’s too overcome, just notices when the friction stops and Jon releases her wrists and waist, slumping over her.

Her breathing is hitching and wavering, tears streaming down her face from the _intensity_ of it all, and as soon as Jon rolls off her and releases his grip completely, she slumps into the furs, able to do absolutely nothing.

Distantly, she’s aware of Jon moving, of his standing up, but she’s not truly focussed on it until she suddenly feels his tongue swiping at her cunt _again._

It’s enough to spur her into action, trying to scurry away from him, but Jon is faster, grabbing her thighs and pulling her back into his mouth.

Just as Sansa opens her mouth to _beg_ him to stop, to likely say _Winterfell_ and _make_ him stop, he pulls away and rolls her over.

Jon hovers over her, brow raised, and Sansa knows exactly what he wants. She’s so relieved that he’s not going to keep working at her that she does it immediately. 

She opens her mouth, and he smirks at her, then opens his lips and lets the mix of his seed and her peak drip from his mouth and into hers. Sansa laps it up eagerly, then turns her face so the last of it splatters over her cheek.

Jon groans at the sight, balancing himself on one hand so he can smear his seed over her cheek with the other.

“Mmm, you look so good like this, sweetheart. I know you like it more when I play with it in your pretty little cunt, but I have a feeling –“

Sansa slams her legs closed as Jon trails his hand down her stomach.

“No, Jon, _don’t_ –“

“Aye, I have feeling you can’t take it again,” he murmurs. “But I think my punishment has worked, don’t you? You just opened your mouth for me _very_ eagerly.”

Yes. Yes, she supposes it has worked. She’ll do anything he asks, as long as he doesn’t touch her cunt again tonight.

Finally, Jon rolls off her completely, leaving Sansa on the bed a sated, boneless mess. While he rummages through her dresser, Sansa feels her eyes getting heavier and heavier, feels herself slipping into sleep.

She’s roused by Jon gently shaking her shoulder. He’s got a jar of body cream in his hands, so she knows it’s only been a few seconds.

“Hey, don’t go to sleep,” he murmurs. “You’ll be in a bad mood tomorrow if we don’t talk.”

Yes, she knows he’s right. After such an intense session with him, after submitting to him so fully, she’s likely to feel very raw facing the real world again on the morrow. Talking to him now, easing slowly out of the headspace she slips into when they have sex, will definitely help significantly.

Especially considering he likely won’t be here when she wakes up. They both loathe they he has to leave, but it’s only logical. They’re playing a dangerous game, even more so now he’s brought the Dragon Queen to their doors. Even though it’s hard, it’s for the best. She knows it, which is why it’s so important they talk now.

“Roll over,” he requests, popping open the jaw of the lid. She struggles with it for a moment, her bones feeling as soft as snow, but Jon gently helps her, taking her by the waist and helping her turn on to her stomach. As he starts to rub the cream into her red and raw arse, he says, “How was that? Are you okay?”

“Mmm,” Sansa murmurs, “‘M okay.”

“Not too much?” he asks.

“Almost,” Sansa answers honestly, pausing so she can gather her thoughts and get her mouth to work properly. When she feels like she can, she says, “I couldn’t have taken another one.”

He finishes massaging the cream into her bottom, and already the coolness of it is easing her pain. Jon disappears again, and this time he returns with a cup of water. He helps her sit up, and then holds the cup to her lips as she drinks eagerly.

“Was there anything you didn’t like? It’s been . . . Well, it’s been a long time, and I – I don’t want to upset you, or –“

Sansa pushes the cup away from her mouth to answer. “The only thing I didn’t like was that you didn’t spill in my mouth, first.”

Jon chuckles and grins at her so widely her heart starts to beat fiercely in her chest.

“My little lady needed me to fuck her cunt longer, did she?”

Despite how _sated_ she is, how exhausted, how sore, her stomach still flutters at the prospect. But – no. They can’t. She’s going to ache enough tomorrow as it is, and be tired, too, and they really shouldn’t be so irresponsible as to go _again._

It’s a fruitless hope, of course. When he wakes her in the middle of the night to kiss her goodbye, she’ll likely hook her arm around his neck and pull him back down, and that time they’ll make love slowly and gently, and he’ll whisper into her ear that he loves her and she’ll peak with his name – his _real_ name – on her lips.

For now, though, Jon dips a cloth into her water basin to clean between her legs; and then he wipes down her face, and then the rest of her body, and he even slowly and patiently undoes the braid atop her head.

When he gets her tucked in, he cleans himself, and then he slides in behind her, pressing her back into him and resting his arm over her waist.

With his mouth pressed into her shoulder, lips brushing over her skin as he lightly glides his fingertips over her stomach, he whispers thoughtfully, “I didn’t play with your tits enough.”

Sansa snorts a laugh, then covers her mouth with her hand, startled at the sound.

She’s not sure she’s laughed since he left.

Jon grins against her shoulder, still nuzzling his face into her.

“I love you.”

Sansa’s humour fades away into an unbearable adoration for him, her heart feeling so full she finds it hard to speak.

She finds her words, though, determined to whisper them back.

“I love you, too.”

Jon exhales against her back, smiling slightly.

“Go to sleep now, Sans. You worked very hard for me tonight.”

The sound that slips from her is something like a moan, something like a whimper. But her eyes _are_ already closed, and she is _so,_ so tired . . .

“I’ll still be here tomorrow. I’m back now, my love.”

And isn’t that beautiful to hear? For the first time since he left, Sansa falls asleep fucked into exhaustion and with a smile on her face. 

**Author's Note:**

> you're welcome. ;) 
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://ladyalice101.tumblr.com) or [insta](https://www.instagram.com/ladyalice101/) or [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCfbuJJVPV-G6Zk6lV9qfULg) (where you might like to see me review [toy story 4](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aQEGrFlc9Y) or [parasite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZMTdyhFCb4) or even see [our darling kit’s movies ranked](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XBbJaPsOFu0&t=977s)) 
> 
> until next time friends! I hope ya'll are safe xx


End file.
